The Bleak House of Doctor Watari
by Hattaguchi S
Summary: Alternate universe story, taking the characters of Near, Mello and Mikami Teru into Victorian London.
1. Chapter 1

**A Foreword**

_The Bleak House of Doctor Watari _is utterly and shamelessly inspired by the rather excellent _Gaslight Gothic _and _Scarlet Letter_, both by the talented RobinRocks. Having read and thouroughly enjoyed both, and being both a _Death Note _enthusiast and a fan of the Victorian era and associated literature as a whole, I couldn't help but pay homage to (or 'steal', as the term is more commonly known) the concept.

_The Bleak House of Doctor Watari _is essentially another short piece that attempts to explore the characters of Nate Rivers, Mihael Keehl and Mikami Teru. It attempts to mimic some of the literature concerning orphans of the era, most notably Charles Dicken's own _Oliver Twist_, as well as perhaps attempting to emulate some of Oscar Wilde's own prose and style. It is, above all else, a study of the characters, rather than a more storyline-driven piece, and hopefully demonstrates much of what is universal to the characters, regardless of time, place, or circumstance.

Enough pretentious warbling from me. Enjoy the story.

* * *

**Chapter One - L Lawliet, Our Mutual Friend**

There was a silence in the stony hall of Doctor Watari's orphanage, broken only by the sharp, rhythmic crack of wood against wood.

Nate Rivers frowned, slightly, tilting his head. He flicked his wrist, sending the ball arcing up, and crashing into the rim of the cup. The wooden chime echoed in the empty hall.  
The ball fell, hanging on its string. Nate flicked his wrist again, and again the ball bounced off the cup.  
There was a stirring. Nate didn't look up. Mihael watched, silently.

The boy was lean, slender. Finely shaped cheek bones stood prominently on his face, framed by curtains of rebellious, angry orange hair. The colour of fire, and spices. He stared, silently for a moment more, and then coughed.  
Nate didn't look up.  
"How long are you going to do that?"  
"Until I win," Nate said, quietly. The ball chimed against the cup's rim and fell away. Mihael snorted.  
"I'm going."  
Nate didn't look up. The heavy wooden door slammed behind Mihael as he left, letting a cold draft of icy wind ruffle Nate's hair. He flicked his wrist. The ball landed in the cup. He smiled, slightly, and put it on the stone floor.

Slowly, he began to gather wooden skittles from the floor. With careful precision, he lined them up on the floor.  
He reached for the painted wooden ball. Held it in pale, reedy fingers. Raised it, unsteadily, and rolled.

It clattered into the stools stacked untidily in the corner of the hall.

Nate watched the ball come to a stop, blinking, and slowly reached for the next ball.

-

Mihael shivered in the cold.  
He was angry. He was usually angry. Something about the quiet, pale child that sat without a word got to him. Something about the quiet, expressionless face that never smiled, never laughed, never cried, never got angry.  
Mihael trudged in the snow-covered streets until his shoes began to give. He tailed an elderly gentleman lost in the slums of London for an hour or so, dogging his footsteps as they passed Whitechapel. The man stumbled, and Mihael was by his side, a firm hand gripping his elbow, steadying him. The other hand slipped into the man's thick overcoat, finding a wallet and slipping out again.

The man pushed him aside, wheezing, and clouted the fiery-headed urchin around the head with a drunken swing. Mihael watched as he staggered out into the snow.  
Mihael inspected the find and pocketed the reward. He trudged on, smiling slightly now, warmed by one rebellious act, one show of defiance.  
He was Mihael Keehl. He didn't play by Nate's rules. He made his own.

He slunk on, slipping into a side-alley and disappearing from the street.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two - Mikami Concertino**

There was a faint sigh as Mikami Teru sat, upright, on the hard leather chair.

He stared at the oak-panelled room around him with harsh, critical eyes, taking in the books carefully shelved on the wall, the animal heads gurning and snarling from their displays. His eyes came to rest on the _zanbatō_, the horse-slaying sword, hanging above the room's mantelpiece.  
Firelight flickered on the sword's blade. Ridiculously over-sized, too unwieldy to ever be used for anything beyond ceremony. A hallmark of an obslete era, that of steel and brutality over intellect and virtue.  
Mikami sat awkwardly, refusing to sit back in the chair. He perched, his hands resting by his sides, formal, upright. He stared at the sword until the door opened.

The man bowed, a poor attempt to mimic the formalities and mannerisms of his foreign guests. Mikami rose, stiffly, and nodded. The man ushered in the rest of his guests, an assortment of society people, peers and socialites, all humming with wit and talk, gossip and sensibility. The hypocrisy of the English aristocracy. Mikami nodded to them as they entered, the barest gesture towards politeness.  
They filed in, whispering all too audibly, all eyes on the foreigner, the novelty of the day.

Mikami stood and let them judge. What a roomful of English aristocrats thought of the Japanese legal attache meant little to him.

The host had noticed Mikami's interest in the sword on the mantelpiece. He waved towards it, laughing.

"You like my collection, Mr Teru?" he said, his jowls wobbling precariously as he spoke. a gut protruded from under a chest decorated with ribbons and small tin medals, gold cord running about his shoulder and sleeves. Some military campaign in the colonies. Some massacre in dark Africa, in exotic India. Recognition for the privates he sent to the death. The sergeants he threw against heathen masses.  
Hypocrisy. Injustice. Mikami's eyes narrowed.  
"I recovered this on a trading venture my brother-in-law forwarded...couldn't go myself, had the gout, damned thing, but made sure my man brought one or two collectibles back. It's a genuine Masmune, you know."

Mikami nodded, without listening. He watched as attention passed from him to the next novelty, an apparent affair between a countess and a clergyman. Hushed voices roared with laughter as the scandal was taken apart in detail, oily men making clever witticisms, painted women looking shocked and then laughing.  
He answered questions when asked, in blunt, impassive tones, and asked to be excused as the guests disappeared for dinner. His host waved him away, preoccupied, greasy chin wet with salivation as a young blonde latched onto his arm, whispering sultrily into his ear.

Mikami stood in the wood-panelled study for a moment more, alone again, and scowled. The English aristocracy was rotten. Sensibility and wit provided a smooth facade over the lust for scandal, the petty rivalries, the arrogance and egocentricity that ran rife through the socialites. Fat, bloated peers licked greedily at chicken bones in the room beyond as in the streets beyond that London's ignored lower classes froze and wasted away.

Justice would look harshly on the aristocracy of England, Mikami reflected. Justice...his eyes rested on the _zanbatō_ once more.  
Yes. Sometimes justice came with steel. Sometimes the judgement came with pain, with destruction.  
It was catharsis. Pain before healing. Necessary evil.

Mikami scowled and lef the study, wordlessly. There was no-one to pass the judgement on the people sat feasting in the dining hall. The bullies of his youth, the evils of the schoolyard had grown in his adulthood, grown to sizes beyond what one good person can hope to overcome.

Injustices went unpunished. Mikami closed to the door to his guest room. Justice went forgotten.

A slim, nondescript book lay on the window-sill. Mikami inspected it, frowning. He opened the book, and began to read.

He stopped, breathless. Arms flung up, sudden, rapturous ecstasy. A prayer had been answered.

"_Kami_!"


End file.
